Cloak and Dagger
by Trecriture
Summary: They know about Athos's troubled past with Milady, Aramis's horrifying experiences in Savoy, and Porthos's incredibly difficult childhood in the Court of Miracles. But how much do they know about d'Artagnan? Chapter Two: d'Artagnan is roaming the streets of his childhood home when a situation comes up. Post 1.08 The Challenge. No spoilers in this chapter, I believe. T for safety.
1. A New Beginning

This is the first chapter of what will hopefully become a collection of oneshots/short arcs for this fantastic fandom, not necessarily in chronological order, just whatever fits the prompt and my muse after having watched and rewatched all 10 episodes. :) The prompts are taken from AngieChild's 100 Themes Variation 1 list on Deviantart that I found posted on The 27th Dimension, a wikidot by DAS.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Musketeers (such a shame) or the 100 Themes Challenge, nor am I making any profit off of this. I just have a ton of plot bunnies bouncing around my head that I needed some guidance on how to get rid of. xD

Note: this chapter was based off the first prompt in the 100 Themes list, 001. Introduction.

* * *

**1. A New Beginning**

The tranquil beauty of the field is disturbed only by the slow, gentle movements of a lone cloaked figure, curling his fingers in a benediction of sorts over the tips of the waist-high grass whilst ambling slowly toward the three crosses set in the protective shade of the great _châtaignier _tree.

He pauses at the leftmost - and oldest - mound, his chocolate brown eyes briefly clouding over before he sighs and slowly takes a seat in front of it, as if he is a wizened grandfather and not a newly-commissioned Musketeer.

"Mother... long time no see," he begins, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Everything has been... _frantic_... for a while now." Wearily, he rubs at his eyes- it's been a long journey from Paris back to the (now mostly burnt) farmlands where he grew up, though thankfully this field was one of the few to escape LaBarge's vandalism - before brightening and reaching behind his back for something. "I brought you these-" he produces a freshly-picked bouquet- "_des fleurs de frangipanier_, your favorite."

A smile unwittingly tugs at the corners of his mouth as a childhood memory surfaces to the forefront of his thoughts. "I remember you always said: 'One is for beauty, two for grace... but _many_ signify a new beginning.'"

He takes a deep breath. "I know you never liked it when Father taught me to use the sword... and I apologize, for these past several months I have used it... quite frequently." _Understatement of the year. _ "But... the Musketeers..." he gestures helplessly. "They've given me a new home, fierce loyalty surpassing even that of our own people here in Gascony, friendships born in fire... and God help me-" he wipes a traitorous tear away from the corner of his eye- "but I do believe I've come to think of them as my elder brothers."

Only the constant chirping of the birds can be heard for the next several moments, during which the young man blinks furiously, marveling at how coming to this copse always seems to make him excessively maudlin. Once he regains his composure, he clears his throat several times before continuing.

"You'd love them. I know you would. Even though they, too, have chosen the way of the sword. I'd like to see Porthos meet you, actually," he says, grinning as his eyes take on a faraway look. "I can just imagine it: the mighty Musketeer, trembling like a mouse in the face of your fury after he inadvertently knocks over a platter of your _foie gras_..." Making a big show of sniffing the air, he can almost smell the distinctive scent of the Gascon delicacy, and his mouth is already watering...

"Then Aramis, being the perfect gentleman that he is, would mollify you and Porthos, the dear fellow, would contritely do whatever work you needed help with around the kitchen until dinner was ready. As for Athos - well, he and Aramis would likely spend the rest of their time bantering back and forth about how quaint it was here in Gascony compared to Paris, and then comment that that must be why I turned out like this-" he grins remarkably good-naturedly- "and then I would help you set the table, all the while trying to get the first bite, with you waving your ladle at me in mock anger - d'you remember it, Mother?" His tone has turned wistful as a myriad of other happy memories come to mind. "How we all used to play with the flour and we would end up the whole family lobbing gobs of it at one another, pastries forgotten?"

Giving himself a little shake, he tries to get back on his previous train of thought. "Right, then once the table was set and I had finally succeeded at snatching a tart before anyone else, we'd all gather round the huge dining table, all the places filled for once, what with you and me, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos there, and Father too-"

He breaks off abruptly. The fairy tale vision of times long past and what could have been crashes to the ground in his mind, utterly destroyed.

_"For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."*_

Now, even the birds have fallen silent, as if sensing that the young man will not - cannot - face the truth with their cheerful song filling the air.

At long last, he speaks, voice husky with sorrow, regret, and a thousand other emotions he has neither the time nor the patience to decipher.

"I'm sorry, Mother. For everything." _For not coming back here as often as I should (never mind that it's a week here and a week back), for not being able to help Father in those last few moments, for not being there to save the farm from that piece of vermin LaBarge, for not choosing the path you wanted me to, for fashioning that absolutely ridiculous fantasy that can never be-_ "but God willing, one day I _will_ make you proud." _Despite all of my mistakes, past, present, and future._

He slowly stands up, stoops to place the bouquet of plumeria flowers on the leftmost mound, directly at the foot of its cross, then straightens and moves on to the one in the middle.

"Paul," he begins, voice cracking with a whirlwind of emotions suddenly swirling in his chest, then falters, head bowed. "Brother," he tries again, wishing he didn't always choke up when trying to say that certain one-syllable name. "Know that you will _always_ have a place in my heart... but also that the hole made from your absence is gradually being filled by three other courageous, witty, great men. You don't have to continue worrying about me, so..." he kneels and gently pats the center mound. "Rest now, brother."

Getting to his feet, he closes his eyes briefly against a staggering moment of vertigo. A growing sense of dread has settled in the pit of his stomach by the time he approaches the rightmost cross, the most recent of the three by far.

"Father," he murmurs, stumbling and almost collapsing in front of the mound. He squeezes his eyes shut for several moments, then stiffly stands at attention, back rigid and expression solemn.

"In entering the service - no, _brotherhood _- of the Musketeers, I pray that I will do our family name proud, and do my part in ensuring that what befell you never becomes the fate of another righteous man. I will struggle, I will fight, I will bleed, I will die- whatever is necessary to ensure your faith in me was not in vain, Father. You have my word, both as your eldest remaining heir, and as the newest member of the King's Musketeers."

After saluting the grave and its memories, he exacts a swift about-face and marches determinedly - but always slowly, gently, never harshly - away from the benevolent _châtaignier_ tree, taking care to respect this beautiful field which has continually protected and, God willing, will_always_ house his three beloved deceased family members.

As he rises over the crest of the small hill and mounts his horse, he turns to look back over the entire awe-inspiring vista, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, and smiles.

Charles d'Artagnan, King's Musketeer.

A new beginning indeed.

* * *

*taken from Genesis 3:19, New King James Version

_châtaignier_ = chestnut

_des fleurs de frangipanier_ = plumeria flowers

_foie gras_ = literally, 'fat liver'; a Gascon delicacy

I also took some artistic license with certain things; for instance, I'm not at all sure when the salute actually came about, let alone what it would have looked like in France in the 1630s. Also, I'm assuming his mother hasn't been around for some time, as d'Artagnan seems okay with her absence (and besides, if she'd been on the farm when LaBarge went on his rampage, wouldn't she have either died or somehow contacted him?)

However, other facts I did make sure to check, e.g. the actual d'Artagnan did have an elder brother who died. Also, the distance between Paris and Gascony is somewhere around 600-700 km; a horse's trot is around 13 km/hr; assuming d'Artagnan rode eight hours a day, with breaks at appropriate intervals, it would take him about a week to get there and another week to travel back to Paris. Would he have time for this? I'm not sure, but I assumed so, since I imagine Tréville has a heart and would let d'Art go back to check on the state of his only source of income post 1.08 The Challenge. :)

Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	2. A Helping Hand, part 1

Thank you to everyone who faved, followed, and reviewed. Thank you also to fairedragon for inspiring a different direction for this story to take (if I hit awful writer's block, I might use the 100 Themes, but for the next several chapters I doubt I'll need to) and nikonian for their wonderfully encouraging PM's!

Just a note: d'Artagnan may seem OOC in this chapter. It will be explained later. :)

* * *

His hometown is not as he remembers it.

Oh, the land is still beautiful, the weather still fair - but the people, the people! He shakes his head slowly as he strolls through the marketplace. It used to be that all manner of children would play in the streets, even after dark; and the villagers would welcome even strangers into their homes for a brief overnight stay, in order to hear tales of what lay beyond the fields and herds of Lupiac; and the adults walked leisurely around, the women gossiping quickly and the men laughing heartily - in short, he remembers the _community_ that was envied in all the rest of Gascony.

Not anymore.

Now, the children remain silent and still, no sign of life to be seen, and always, always press close to their mothers' skirts; the homes' windows are shuttered and ominous in appearance, warning all except those residing there to keep out and stay away; and the market is near destitute of buyers, and even those brave enough to venture out walk rapidly, heads down, without exchanging a word to their neighbors as they pass. The only signs of life are the quiet murmurs of those requesting items and the slight jingle of coins as payment is exchanged for goods.

Then a quartet of Red Guards walk determinedly down the road and take the turn leading back toward the city entrance, and d'Artagnan does not miss how the villagers shrink away from them, hissing and muttering but never confronting or raising their voices above a whisper.

He frowns. What could the Red Guards possibly have to do here?

Then he remembers, and his jaw clenches. Tréville was right - the Cardinal will have wanted to retain his influence in this region, not willing to relinquish it even after LaBarge's forceful arrest and subsequent killing. The power-hungry bastard has sent his bully boys here for that sole purpose, he is certain of it.

He mutters a bitter curse, then resignedly begins following the path the Red Guards took. So many sights he still wants to see - old Jacques's mill; the bridge over the stream leading to the woods he and his friends played in as little boys; Ragot's tavern, which offers food and drink a thousand times better than those in Paris...

But that will have to wait for another time, he thinks as he hears shouts and the clang of swords coming from the building two street corners ahead and races toward the source of the disturbance, hand already steadying the hilt of his sword as he runs.

* * *

Arnoux Marsanieux, recently-promoted Lieutenant in the Red Guards, thoroughly enjoys stalking through the streets of Lupiac and watching as its pathetic inhabitants cower in the face of his authority. He nods in satisfaction, smirking as the pitiful farmers and peasants shrink back toward the shadows of the buildings and noticeably away from him and his men. LaBarge did his work well. So well, he muses, that _no one _living in the region will dare to defy His Eminence ever again-

But for the young man standing determinedly in the middle of the road, blocking their way.

"Move, boy," Marsanieux says quietly but in a firm tone brooking no argument. "We have the Cardinal's business to attend to."

Normally, he would have already instructed one of his men to kick the obstacle (be it person or thing) out of the way, but doing such a thing against a youngster - armed though he is, a long sword strapped to his side - could well be all the instigation the locals need before they snap out of their wary quiescence and attack him and his men.

The atmosphere is certainly hostile enough by now.

"And what is this _Cardinal's business_, pray tell?" the boy demands sharply, hands curling into fists and his words and expression so venomous that Marsanieux actually takes a step back. "Your precious _Cardinal _is the one who appointed LaBarge, isn't that right? So is it not now his responsibility - since LaBarge is dead, thank God - to right his wrongs and help us out, seeing as more than half of all our lands have been burned?" He scowls. "Or would you prefer that His Majesty not receive the taxes he demands, seeing as the lot of us will _die_ at this rate by year's end?"

"You insolent little-!" Marsanieux snarls, leaping forward. Their swords meet in a jarring _clang_, the force of which causes the lower half of his right arm to go numb.

Marsanieux gapes at the blades, his arm, and then turns his incredulous gaze on the boy, who stands there naturally, easily. _This boy is no amateur,_ he thinks nervously.

The boy smirks. "Is that the best you've got, _Red Scum?_"

With a howl of rage, Marsanieux lunges for him again, but the boy easily sidesteps the wild stab before striking in his own turn: a thrust, then a side cut that the Lieutenant clumsily parries before half-turning to shout, "Well don't just _stand_ there, you idiots! Fight!"

Startled at the shout, his three men stumble forward awkwardly while Marsanieux hurriedly steps back, out of the reach of that terrifying sword.

The young man swallows, throat suddenly dry, then squares his shoulders, a razor-sharp focus entering his eyes. He just barely dodges the wide sweep of the first crony, then desperately brings his blade up to prevent the second and third soldiers from breaking through his guard. It's two against one, though, and he grits his teeth as he feels himself sliding backward. He tries to push against them, but he's outnumbered and hasn't been eating much so he knows he's lost muscle-

As a third sword forcefully adds itself to the two already striving to push him back into a corner, he stumbles backwards, stumbles into the firm timber wall of one of the taverns, and his concentration breaks for just a moment...

And then the four men are upon him, and he's forced harshly back against the wall, three swords at his throat while the fourth neatly disarms him in one contemptuous gesture, then all four swords raise in unison and he closes his eyes in preparation-

"My, my, what's this? Four against one?" Someone clucks in disapproval. "And you dare to claim you uphold the code of honor."

The boy watches in confusion, straining his neck to try to see the newcomer who has made all four men pale and the arrogant ringleader of these Red Scum tremble.

"Be on your way, Musketeer. This matter does not concern you," Marsanieux says, drawing himself up to his full height in a pathetic attempt to seem authoritative.

The musketeer's lips turn up in what appears to be the smile a wolf might give its prey right before it goes in for the kill. "Ah, but doesn't it, monsieur? After all, I cannot claim to be worthy of this-" he gestures to the fleur-de-lis on his right shoulder - "if I ignore the four of you attacking an unarmed young man! I seem to recall that we are supposed to, 'when outnumbering the enemy, duel one-on-one in turns so as not to besmirch the honor of your patron'? Is that not right, gentlemen?"

The boy blinks. Somehow the musketeer, while speaking, has drawn within ten paces of the lead Red Guard. With that thought, he realizes that his four assailants are distracted by the appearance of the new man, and so slowly, carefully inches toward where his sword was flung earlier.

Marsanieux bristles at the musketeer's condescending tone. "You have effectively challenged us! And in case you have forgotten, Musketeer, you yourself commented that it is four against one!"

Incredibly, the man shrugs and smiles beatifically. "So get two more men and then it'll be an even fight, _seign__eur_." Suddenly, his expression darkens, all traces of good humor wiped off his face and his eyes now blazing. "Now _en garde_, you great big brutes!"

With that, he leaps forward and begins a whirlwind of blows - forehands, backhands, thrusts, side and overhead cuts - his speed so blistering that Marsanieux is driven back into his own men. And then a commotion arises there as the boy, who has finally managed to retrieve his sword, joins the fight as well.

D'Artagnan merely brings the hilt of his sword crashing down upon the heads of the men until the tip of his blade reaches Marsanieux's throat. Panting heavily to the left of him, the boy copies his actions.

The Lieutenant looks at where his three men lay strewn about the road in front of him, then switches his gaze frantically between d'Artagnan and the boy, seeing not an iota of pity in either of their expressions. As the musketeer leans forward menacingly, Marsanieux cringes and tries to cower only to find his back against a hard, uncompromising wall.

"Please," he whimpers pathetically. "Don't kill me."

Boy and musketeer exchange disgusted glances, the boy's mouth set in a grim line, the musketeer's eyebrow raised. The musketeer opens his mouth, then-

"D'Artagnan!"

Three older men, all donning blue cloaks, black hats, and the same fleur-de-lis insignia his savior is, rush down the street and skid to a stop near them.

The one in front sighs. "D'Artagnan," he says solemnly, almost sounding like a father admonishing his unruly son.

A muscle works in his savior's jaw, but he eventually exhales, sheathes his sword (the boy slowly follows his example), then none-too-gently heaves the Red Guard up and shoves him so he lands in a heap at the newcomers' feet.

"Filthy piece of scum," his savior - right, d'Artagnan is his name - near snarls, spitting at the leader of the three other Red Guards. The dark-skinned musketeer instantly moves to stand in between him and the pathetic Red Guard, while the curly-haired one gently leads d'Artagnan closer to their own leader.

"What did he do?" The leader's voice sounds somewhat weary, resigned almost, as if this happens to him far too often.

"_He_-" d'Artagnan points with no small amount of disgust at Marsanieux - "had cornered and disarmed this young man-" he jerks a thumb toward the boy, who stands stiffly at attention as the other three musketeers' gazes focus on him - "and was about to kill him even as they outnumbered the poor lad four to one. _Four_ to _one_, Athos!"

His savior turns a murderous glare on the now-cowering-again Red Guard and menacingly takes a few steps toward him. "You're lucky the boy had guts enough to stay and I feel there's been enough killing already, bastard. But I promise you: when our paths cross again-" and there's that same wolfish smile that doesn't reach his eyes by far - "I will not be so merciful. Now. Before I change my mind... GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" he roars, sending the Lieutenant scuttling backwards in fear and shock.

Even d'Artagnan's three musketeer friends seem surprised at the severity of his bellow, the one named Athos holding him as he trembles, so great is his anger.

"Um... Monsieur d'Artagnan?" the boy asks hesitantly, stepping toward him. The musketeer's intense gaze swivels away from the fleeing Red Guard and onto him. Swallowing, the boy says, "Thank you, sir, for your unnecessary kindness. I will always be in your debt, but... If there's something I can do to repay you at all...?"

D'Artagnan meets the gazes of the three other Musketeers, as if silently asking a question, then turns back toward the boy and sighs. "I don't suppose you would know a good place to stay for the night?"

But to his surprise, the boy smiles. "Follow me."

* * *

So there we have it! You'll find out more about the boy and get some more insight into why d'Artagnan is acting OOC in the next chapter. Though I will say, he did just visit the graves of his three deceased family members and was moody about the negative changes in Lupiac of Gascony.

I have no idea what the code of honor says when d'Artagnan is quoting his spiel about not attacking the enemy when you outnumber them. I just thought it sounded nice. XD

Virtual cookies to anyone who can tell me the movie reference! From now on updates will be rather sporadic as I'm leaving for camp tomorrow and right after I get back school starts again.

Thank you for reading (haha are you still reading this A/N? Kudos!)-please let me know how I did!


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